Roses in the Snow
by Theater Raven
Summary: One shot. Christine misses her father more than anything and while visiting his grave, she receives a sign from him that he is watching over her. Leroux based.


**Roses in the Snow**

_He watched as the casket was lowered into the ground, the two bodies being buried together, in the same grave, the same coffin, the same eternal bed that would now house them. It was early spring, but the winter's last few stubborn frosts and slushy snow still clung to the earth. He stared down as the cold wind whipped him, making his tear-filled eyes burn even more. He was trying not to cry, both for the deceased people's sake and the sake of the living standing beside him, but it was difficult. He glanced up at the priest, who stood on the opposite side of the grave, and let out a sob, tears spilling out._

_"I loved my wife . . ." _

_"Of course you did."_

_"And I'll love her . . . forever . . ."_

_"Of course, forever," the priest said reassuringly, smiling at him._

_The man tossed in a bouquet of red roses before the gravedigger began to cover the grave._

_"And my son is with his mother," he added, "It's just a shame he didn't get to know his sister."_

_He turned to his daughter. Her sapphire eyes were two large puddles overflowing with water. He knelt down beside her and, when they were at even levels, she threw her arms around his neck._

_"Don't ever go away," she cried into his collar, "Don't ever leave like Mama and little brother did."_

_"I'll have to someday."_

_"No!"_

_Clutching the little body close to him, he felt a rush of emotion come over him. His wife had died in giving birth to their second child and the boy, too, had not survived. His daughter was now the only one he had left. Were it not for her he would be alone in the world, and vice versa._

_"Papa, promise me you'll never leave."_

_He answered without hesitation._

_"I promise."_

_And the roses were covered with snow-chilled dirt. _

_The months passed, the wounds of fresh grief healed, but scars still remained. At last, her birthday came and, as he always did, Papa gave her a bunch of roses, saying that someday, someone else would be giving such flowers to her, so he wanted to beat him to it. But then, Papa died and there were no roses anymore. _

Now, she walked through the graveyard, the snow thick and cold, the icy breath of winter freezing her. She knew that he had said so only to pacify the concerns of a young child, but she could not help but feel angry.

"You promised! You _promised_!" she choked out, trying not to cry.

Then, suddenly, she heard music—music coming from behind her father's grave. That was strange—it was late at night, not a soul should be about . . . except for_ him_—had he really fulfilled the sign he had promised, or was her longing for the sign to be fulfilled making her hear it? She walked to the tomb inscribed with her father's name—Carl Daaé—sat down, and continued to listen, but as she glanced about her in the moonlight, she saw something. In the end, it was not the playing of "The Resurrection of Lazarus" that made her know that her father was here, that the teacher who had been training her all these months was indeed the benevolent spirit her father had promised to send to watch over her in his place—instead, it was the bunch of red roses growing up around the tombstone.

The piece ceased on the violin and suddenly, the only sound she heard was the frigid breathing of the winter night. The air was crisp and still, the atmosphere cold and unfriendly—these were no conditions for roses to be thriving in. Yet here they were, blooming up out of the white veil that covered the ground, their little red heads staring up at the star-studded sky. Timidly, as timidly as if she had been seven years old again, Christine approached the blooms. She knelt down by them, buried her nose in their soft petals, and smelled; along with the typical, fragrant, sweet scent of the rose, she thought that she caught another scent—the distinct scent of the cologne her father used to wear, a smell that was as fresh in her memory as if she had only inhaled it moments before.

She inhaled again to be sure—no, it was not her imagination. She had the strange sensation, then, of a hand on her back and turning to look, she saw no one there. She turned back to the flowers, then, the feeling trailed down her back . . . she felt the sensation of arms encircling her waist from behind. She was being held. By what? By who?

Sobs wracked her body; her tears froze in little tiny triangles on her cheeks, clinging to her eyelashes. The signs had comforted her and made her long for him to be by her side again even more—her heart had been soothed and had had salt rubbed in its wounds all at once. The strange feeling that she was being held did not go away. She felt the icy wind exhale on the back of her neck, sending goosebumps down her, but then, another wind blew, but this one seemed warmer, and she thought she heard his voice murmur her name in her ear. She reached out and fingered a rose—it had been years since she had spoken her native language, for after his death, she had forsaken all things connecting her to Sweden in order to try and cut away the pain, but now, the language flowed from her mouth as easily as if she had spoken it all her life.

"Father," she choked out, speaking in Swedish, "I miss you so much . . . I know you've sent the Angel, and I thank you for that, but, I wish_ you_ were here. You don't know how much I miss you . . . or maybe you do, but . . ."

Her words trailed off. And one of the roses waved at her in the wind.

"I love you," she said, looking at the rose.

And she got to her feet, saying she would come back, and walked away, her frozen tears still on her face, leaving the little clump of roses behind. They looked sad to see her go.


End file.
